


Milk & Honey

by ibkod



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Drabble, Language Kink, M/M, Short & Sweet, eggsy is turned on, foreign dirty talk, harry is a polyglot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 08:09:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12553048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ibkod/pseuds/ibkod
Summary: We know Harry is a polyglot. Eggsy wants to know just how extensive it is. Sort of. Aside from the fact that it's kind of torture standing next to him in one country after another listening to him wield a honeyed tongue like it's no big deal.





	Milk & Honey

**Author's Note:**

> Oops. Should be writing Chapter 3 of A Gentleman's Handbook but this came out instead. Inspired by ogkingsmanhartwin and hellahartwin waxing poetic on the extent of Harry's linguistic prowess on tumblr. Was supposed to be about 500-700 words.... haha. 
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](https://ibbywrites.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Translations at the end.

Merlin sends Eggsy and Harry to Bangladesh.

They arrive at a clandestine meeting with a bunch of brawny looking thugs in ill-fitting linen suits, posing as thinly veiled ‘businessmen’ themselves. Harry busies himself exchanging handshakes with each of the men, face passive and serene despite the flexing grips, each a transparent threat. Eggsy surreptitiously cases the cavernous warehouse (and really, how cliche can you get), waiting for the translator to identify himself.

It doesn’t happen, though, and it takes Eggsy an embarrassingly long moment to process the stream of sounds coming from Harry’s mouth to be genuine Hindi.

Something further back, lower in his conscious, whistles in alarm. Eggsy feels his fingertips tingle and itch with heat - he shoves them in the pockets of the lightweight suit, feigning nonchalance.

—

Warsaw is fucking freezing in February. Eggsy is convinced his balls are on the verge of permanently retreating into the warmth of his body. He tries to focus on his grip around the sniper rifle, fingers stiff and frozen in place. It starts to snow again, fat flakes dusting onto his face, tickling. Eggsy scrunches his nose and tries to blow them away.

It’s quiet in this part of Warsaw, thick blanket of snow muffling things further.

“ _Pospiesz się_ ,” Harry says roughly in his ear.

Merlin’s voice rumbles lowly after his, informing Eggsy that the mark is on the move.

The mark responds, too softly for Eggsy to make out through Harry’s mic.

There is amusement, heat in Harry’s voice when he responds, “ _Niedostatek wiedzy to rzecz niebezpieczna_.”

Eggsy’s suddenly no longer worried about the cold, or his balls. He stretches the finger on the trigger, primed.

—

It’s rehearsed - they’d sat in the train to Budapest and planned this out word-for-word, to the T - which is why the fact that it still feels like a punch to the gut (or maybe just a hand on the cock) when Harry drawls out, “ _Ide tudnád adni azt a törölközőt, kérlek_ ,” all the more distressing.

He does as he’s asked, as agreed, but he doesn’t miss the assessing look Harry gives him through the steam when Eggsy furtively adjusts the towel around his hips.

“Are you quite alright?” Harry asks after, tossing the bloodied towel into the hamper. Eggsy doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s got that bloody superior smirk curling the corners of his mouth.

“Piss off.”

—

It really shouldn’t be surprising by the time they’re shmoozing a rich young heiress in a casino in Ankara. Eggsy is sat across from Harry at the craps table, waiting for his cue to make a scene. They’re supposed to be strangers, but Eggsy can’t help the way his eyes are drawn to the shape of Harry’s lips around the words pouring from his mouth. Luckily the other young blonde, the one sitting beside Harry, seems similarly mesmerized.

“ _Senin deliğin benim için emirdir_.”

Harry offers the dice in his palm to the woman, who obliges and leans into to blow a gust of air over them, looking up through her lashes at him. Eggsy starts as a shoe knocks sharply against his under the table - he’s missed his cue.

Harry leans in to speak into the shell of her ear, but his eyes are on Eggsy. “ _Oyun başlasın_.”

It really shouldn’t be surprising either, later, when Eggsy is in the shower, glasses fogged opaque, hand wrapped tightly around his own cock, listening to Harry murmur to some other young blonde, “ _Elbiselerini çikar ve bunu yapmaya devam_.”

—

Eggsy isn’t surprised anymore by the time Harry is casually gossiping in perfectly accented Swiss German with the grossly corrupted foreign trade minister whose gala dinner they have slyly managed to infiltrate.

He _is_ surprised by the fact that, _yes_ , German can sound remarkably provocative and sensual, and _yes_ , he is hard as a rock in the deplorably tight bespoke trousers he just had made earlier that week.

—

Eggsy is beginning to suspect he has been sussed out by the time they are in Bucharest and he finds himself contorted within an air vent above the hotel room in which Harry is seducing a willowy, curly-haired twink (and ain’t that a bitch), waiting.

“ _Vino încoace. Treci în genunchi_.” Harry’s voice holds the steel of command in it and Eggsy internally sends a desperate appeal to whatever higher powers there may be.

“ _Crăcănează-ți picioarele_.”

He can hear the boy make a soft noise, something close to a whimper, and Eggsy can’t help but agree. A long moment goes by punctuated by small, urgent sounds and the whisper of cloth and skin. Eggsy tries to focus on carefully, painstakingly shifting his position, stretching the numbness out of his knees and hips.

” _Asta e_ ,” Harry hums. His voice is dark, wrapping around the vowels and consonants exquisitely. “ _Minunat_.”

“ _Vă rog_ ,” the boy whines, and Eggsy knows a plea when he hears one.

“ _Ce vrei să faci? Poți să-mi sugi pula, sau pot să te fut până nu mai știi cum te cheamă_.”

Eggsy is thankful, for once, that he can’t understand. The heat and richness of Harry’s voice is enough. He imagines he’s down there instead, letting the words flow over him like a river, caught in the current. He wonders, idly, listening to the boy moan loud enough that Eggsy doesn’t need the mic from Harry’s glasses to hear it, about the capabilities of a tongue that talented.

“ _Bun băiat. E bine așa. E perfect._ ”

—

They are in Novosibirsk, watching the visiting Bolshoi ballet perform at the opulent theatre, cloaked in the velvety nest of a state box. Eggsy brings the delicate golden opera glasses to his eyes, seeking out their mark.

“ _Tам,_ ” their liaison purrs softly, pointing covertly across the expansive bowels of the theatre to the boxes on the other side.

“There,” Harry translates, and cups Eggsy’s elbow, directing him til he is pointing in the correct direction. Eggsy nods and passes the glasses to Harry.

“ _Видишь его?_ ” the woman seated behind them asks.

“ _Да, cпасибо,_ ” Harry murmurs.

Eggsy shifts in his plush seat, crosses his legs gingerly. The performance continues in a graceful swirl below them, diaphanous skirts floating in tandem across the misty stage. Beside him, Harry trains the glasses on the stage, swivelling them back to the box opposite them every so often. Eggsy feels Harry tense, only barely noticeable in his periphery, and does his utmost not to startle when Harry’s palm slides onto his thigh, long fingers spanning the breadth of it and curling into his adductor. Harry leans in, lips brushing his jaw before drifting to the curve of Eggsy’s ear.

“ _Извини меня,_ ” Eggsy has no idea what he is saying, feels the hopeless, liquid rush of arousal sweep through his limbs, pooling in his groin. “ _Oн наблюдает._ ”

“Harry,” Eggsy mutters, warning.

“ _Возможно, нам стоит устроить шоу_.” Harry tucks his face into Eggsy’s neck and Eggsy can feel the smirk, the soft puff of laughter against the straining tendon stretching from ear to clavicle. “ _Думаю, тебе понравится_.”

The hand on his thigh glides higher, pinky finger brushing into the creases of fabric at his hip lightly, accompanied by a terrible swooping sensation low in Eggsy’s gut. He takes a mortifyingly shuddering breath, holding it at the top when he looks down, watches disbelieving as Harry runs his ring finger deliberately down the seam of his hip to his groin.

“Jesus.” It comes out slightly strangled and Harry laughs into the soft patch of skin behind his ear.

“ _Может, даже слишком_.”

He coolly draws away, gives Eggsy’s inner thigh a squeeze, and gets to his feet. By the time Eggsy catches on that their mark has left his box, Harry is already slipping through the heavy draping curtains of their own.

—

It’s pathetic, really. Cliche, hackneyed, overused, banal, impossibly _trite_ , that it’s fucking _Italian_ that finally does it. Eggsy hates his own predictability almost as much as he hates Harry in that moment, broad hand splayed and pressed firmly in the small of Eggsy’s back as he deftly steers him around the crowded ballroom. His voice is honeyed and mellifluous, the language natural and elegant in the way it rolls off his tongue. It is his second language, Eggsy knows, and it’s obvious.

“ _Il mio collega,_ ” Harry says to the couple he is talking to, gesturing to Eggsy. “ _Non parla italiano, purtroppo._ ”

Eggsy knows the words. “ _Buonasera,_ ” he intones, his accent purposefully a slightly clumsy attempt, and extends his hand to each of them.

The night goes like that, pleasant introductions and polite conversation which he is entirely excluded from. Harry is attentive, though, constant in his efforts to not let Eggsy go ignored. He keeps his hands on him, skirting the border of friendly and proprietary, murmuring to him as they glide between guests.

“You are doing very well,” he praises warmly. “You look gorgeous in that suit.”

It should be obvious, a blatant come on, but from Harry it isn’t. It’s said like an incontestable fact - nobody would argue. Eggsy tries not to roll his eyes, keeps his face pleasant and relaxed when he hisses into Harry’s ear, “Fuck off.” The answering roll of laughter is laced with warmth and good humour. Harry is enjoying himself, Eggsy realizes.

Eggsy wishes he were enjoying himself. It’s more like an extended, very subtle torture session, however. Eggsy thinks longingly of the stark steel chamber he did his SERE training in and the detached state of mind he was trained to enter within it. An impossibility here, with Harry’s thumb rubbing slow circles at the base of his spine and the rising and falling melody of Harry’s Italian in his ear. Eggsy closes his eyes and vehemently curses Italian fashion trends and their vexingly short tuxedo jackets.

The wife of the man Eggsy and Harry are there to run surveillance on approaches them and enthusiastically greets them, kissing them both showily on each cheek as if they are old friends. She is their mole and is, as Eggsy has found out over the last week, a blatant and shameless flirt. She proceeds to turn the full force of her charms on Eggsy, English broken but understandable as she takes every opportunity to touch him.

Eggsy knows this dance, is a terrible, flagrant flirt himself. It should be easy to mirror the display, give as good as he gets, and it would be if not for that fucking hand on his spine. He thinks at first it may simply be unconscious, the way Harry’s fingers rub soothingly into the muscles of his lower back. But it gets harder and harder to write off as said hand begins to drift, first upwards and back down in sleek, reassuring strokes, fingers dancing up and down the column of his spine, and then down and around, curling possessively around the curve of Eggsy’s waist, accentuated by the cut of his jacket. He does his damnest to not react when he feels a thumb press firmly into the muscled divots above the swell of his arse through the fabric of his jacket, first one, then the other, with unerring accuracy. He does react though, inhaling sharply, spine snapping straight and cheeks immediately flushing.

The glittering wife notices, a moment of surprise flitting across her features before she flashes an apologetic grin at Harry. “ _Ah, scusi. Non mi rendevo conto che fosse tuo._ ”

The grin Harry sends her in return is blinding, makes Eggsy’s heart lodge in his throat. “ _Non c’è bisgno di scusarsi._ ” Harry’s eyes flick to Eggsy. “ _Non lo sa ancora._ ”

The hand spread across his lower back slides smoothly down and Eggsy meets Harry’s gaze, sparking with humour, wide-eyed as Harry’s fingers cup the contour of his arse, squeezing lightly.

“Excuse us,” Eggsy says, stilted, giving a tight smile to the woman in front of them who is hiding her smile behind her hand, eyes dancing with amusement. Eggsy reaches behind himself, fingers closing around Harry’s wrist, and takes off towards the exit, Harry in tow.

The terrace is fortuitously empty and Eggsy wheels around on Harry as soon as they are alone. “The fuck you think you’re playing at?!”

Harry looks placating, politely apologetic, but not quite genuinely contrite. “Eggsy,”

“We’ve got a cover to maintain, which you’re completely blowing, in case you forgot that work colleagues don’t go round groping each other’s arses at fancy balls?”

Harry shrugs, doing a frankly shit job at keeping the grin from the corners of his lips. “They might,” he says airily.

Eggsy gapes at him. “You taking the piss, bruv?”

“ _Non chiamarmi questo,_ ” Harry murmurs. He flexes the arm still fastened in Eggsy’s grip saying, “ _Vieni qui, bello ragazzo,_ ” and uses it to pull Eggsy against him.

—

“ _Nemmeno immagini cosa ho intenzione di farti,_ ” Harry says into Eggsy’s gasping mouth a short time later, closeted safely in the privacy of Harry’s suite.

Eggsy can’t help the sound that escapes his mouth. “Fuck, more,” he breathes.

“ _Dio, la tua bocca,_ ” Harry exhales on a small moan pushing Eggsy into the soft bedding with a hand to his chest. “ _M’attizzi_.”

“Harry, jesus christ,” Eggsy can’t help it, he’s nearly crying he’s so turned on.

Harry grins into his mouth. “ _Dimmi come ti piace._ What do you like?” he mutters urgently.

“Anything. Everything.” Eggsy gasps, “Just- please. Don’t stop.”

It’s too much and not enough. It’s every cliche Eggsy can think of. Harry is everywhere, above him, under him, around him, and it should be awful, suffocating, but he’s never felt better, never wanted anything or anyone more. He tries to say it, Harry’s fingers brushing insistently, unrelenting over his prostate, but it comes out as nonsense, fevered babbling punctuated by ardently heated curses.

“ _Potresti venire da questo?_ ” Harry hums into his ear, and Eggsy can hear the sharpness of his grin. “ _Le mie parole? La mia voce?_ ”

“Fucking hell,” Eggsy swears, fingers twisting in the pillow his head is on. His hips jerk reflexively, hard cock lolling on his flat stomach, untouched. It’s slutty as fuck and Eggsy doesn’t give a shit.

“ _Certamente sembra che tu possa, tesoro,_ ” he intones, approval clear in his voice.

Eggsy thinks he may come like that, is on the knife’s edge, until Harry withdraws and loops an arm around his middle turning him over. “ _Ingonicchiati. Chinati._ ”

“You-“ Eggsy bites, letting Harry press him into place, on his knees, chest flush with the sheets. “God, you are a fucking bastard, Harry, fuck me, _fuck me._ ”

It would be embarrassing, most definitely will be on later reflection, but for now he can’t bring himself to care. He will say whatever he needs to get what he wants, to get more. Harry gives it to him, all of it. Rocks into him gently and then hard. Runs his hands, those long, clever fingers, all over him. Keeps up steady stream of words into Eggsy’s ear, draped over Eggsy’s back so he can whisper and croon them to him, soft and _dirty_.

Eggsy can tell Harry’s close when his fingers grip Eggsy’s hips, thumbs pressing into his skin which he knows will bruise like overripe fruit, hips snapping staccato against the cushion of Eggsy’s arse. Eggsy spreads his legs a little further, feels the stretch in his hips, arches his flexible back a little deeper. Harry groans into the skin at the nape of his neck. “ _Sì, lì, così è perfetto. Stai lì, tesoro._ ”

It’s Eggsy who comes first, spitting curses like he’s fucking furious before dissolving into a whining moan, hips jerking into a touch that isn’t there, wasn’t ever there, and yeah, he’s coming untouched, and the knowledge of it seizes like a vice around him, milking him even harder. He can feel the way his body rolls with it, the clench and release rippling through him.

He can feel Harry’s fingers clench into his sides even harder, the rough, “ _cazzo-_ “ is hardly a word, bitten, gritted out.

Harry grunts Eggsy’s name into the sharp ridge of his shoulder blade, voice wrecked, rough, the musical softness of the Italian falling away as he buries himself as deeply as he bodily can into Eggsy’s convulsing, heated flesh. Eggsy can’t hold both their weight, sinks down into the mess he’s made under himself, hips still twitching and rutting. Harry swears, in English this time, hands slipping down to squeeze Eggsy’s arse, half in appreciation and half to keep him still.

Later, washed clean and offending bedding stripped away, Eggsy says into the soft skin of Harry’s collarbones, “So, just how many languages _can_ you speak?”

**Author's Note:**

> Translations
> 
> Polish:
> 
>  _Pospiesz się_ = Hurry up
> 
>  _Niedostatek wiedzy to rzecz niebezpieczna_ = A little knowledge is a dangerous thing
> 
> Hungarian:
> 
>  _Ide tudnád adni azt a törölközőt, kérlek_ = Would you mind handing me that towel?
> 
> Turkish:
> 
>  _Senin deliğin benim için emirdir_ = Your wish is my command
> 
>  _Oyun başlasın_ = Let the games begin
> 
>  _Elbiselerini çikar ve bunu yapmaya devam_ = Take off your clothes and keep doing that
> 
> Romanian:
> 
>  _Vino încoace. Treci în genunchi_ = Come here. Get on your knees.
> 
>  _Crăcănează-ți picioarele_ = Spread your legs
> 
>  _Asta e. Minunat_ = That’s it. Lovely
> 
>  _Vă rog_ = Please
> 
>  _Ce vrei să faci? Poți să-mi sugi pula, sau pot să te fut până nu mai știi cum te cheamă_ = What do you want? You can suck my cock, or I can fuck you until you forget your name.
> 
>  _Bun băiat. E bine așa. E perfect_ = Good boy. That’s good. That’s perfect.
> 
> Russian:
> 
>  _Видишь его_ = See him?
> 
>  _Да, cпасибо_ = Yes, thank you
> 
>  _Извини меня. Oн наблюдает_ = You must excuse me. He’s watching.
> 
>  _Возможно, нам стоит устроить шоу. Думаю, тебе понравится_ = Perhaps we should put on a show. I think you may like it.
> 
>  _Может, даже слишком_ = Maybe too much.
> 
> Italian:
> 
>  _Il mio collega. Non parla italiano, purtroppo_ = My colleague. Doesn’t speak Italian, unfortunately.
> 
>  _Ah, scusi. Non mi rendevo conto che fosse tuo_ = Ah, sorry. I did not realize he was yours.
> 
>  _Non c’è bisgno di scusarsi. Non lo sa ancora_ = No need to apologize. He doesn’t know it yet.
> 
>  _Non chiamarmi questo. Vieni qui, bello ragazzo_ = Don’t call me that. Come here, lovely boy.
> 
>  _Nemmeno immagini cosa ho intenzione di farti_ = You can’t imagine what I’m going to do to you
> 
>  _Dio, la tua bocca. M’attizzi_ = God, your mouth. You turn me on.
> 
>  _Potresti venire da questo? Le mie parole? La mia voce?_ = Could you come from this? My words? My voice?
> 
>  _Certamente sembra che tu possa, tesoro_ = It certainly seems like you can, darling
> 
>  _Ingonicchiati. Chinati_ = Kneel. Bend over
> 
>  _Sì, lì, così è perfetto. Stai lì, tesoro_ = Yes, there, that’s perfect. Stay there, darling
> 
>  _cazzo_ = fuck/shit


End file.
